The idea came to me weeding, like many good ideas do. There’s something about ripping life out of the earth that primes the mind for thought.
It was a bright, sunny morning in April, and I had been thinking about my frustrations of trying to decide on a name for this place that we garden. I had iterated through dozens of ideas over the past five years when all of a sudden they crashed together into two words.
Ephemera Farm.
It’s almost if the ground spoke it for in that small moment all the other small moments I so wished to revere were incapsulated in a name.
We name things to be able to talk about them, even gardens. James Golden has Federal Twist, Stephanie Cohen has Shortwood Gardens, Jimmy Williams has Tennessee Dixter (a play off Christopher Lloyd’s Great Dixter), Andrew Bunting has Belvidere, and Vita Sackville-West had Sissinghurst. With a name, a story can be told.
But, giving a garden a name is scary. A name says that the place is here to stay, that there is a permanence to it. Giving a garden a name is also a difficult decision. The name has to feel right and have an energy to it.
I kept struggling because I wanted to name it after something that perfectly described our smallholding here in east Texas. The challenge was what to name it after as there are so many things that we love.
The bright full moon of January shining through the barren tree branches.
The silence of snowfall in February broken only by the chirps of birds searching for food.
The first flowers of March and the fragrance they perfume on the south winds.
The fireflies that emerge in April and dance in the gloaming.
The Monarchs that break out of their chrysalises and head north in May.
The first tomato of June warmed by the sun and when bit juice drips down the wrist.
The last Wood Thrush that sings its song before migrating in July.
The butterflies that swirl themselves above plantings in August.
The asters that start to pop in September with shortening days.
The first cold morning of October where I can see my breath.
The blazing foliage that manifests in the woods in November.
The gifts that December gives us to use in winter decor.
It seemed like every month something small would cast its vote to have its essence tied to a name. And, with all these little moments, it is hard to pick a favorite.
Until, with a handful of weeds in my hand, I realized that perhaps instead of naming this place after one little thing why not name it after all the little things that make life worth living. These small moments that we love and cherish in the garden don’t last forever and may occupy mere seconds of our day before fading away. They are ephemera, seemingly insignificant, but when added together over a season or a life are greater than the sum of their parts. Ephemera Farm is be a place to celebrate these little moments and a place to learn and then share how we can garden better.
Sometimes when I’m out in the garden and one of these fleeting moments passes me by, I think is this the last time? Is this the last time that I’ll see the glistening hoarfrost melt against sunrise or strain to hear the song of a Whip-poor-will through the trees or watch leaves dance as they fall to the earth from a good gust or glimpse fog rolling out of the woods after a rain?
I’m in my late thirties, and statistically, my time on earth is half over if one looks at the average life span. I’m not trying to sound morbid or put myself in the grave yet, but such thoughts keep me grounded, humbled, and centered as a person. I pause to appreciate these ephemeral moments and remind myself of how special and rewarding the gardening life is. After all, life is but a vapor.
So, when you come, I can say welcome to Ephemera Farm. We are going to live in these little moments and soak them up. Even the mundane like pulling weeds.